


Watercolors

by but_i_am_a_villain



Category: Gentleman Jack (TV)
Genre: Also implicit Sister Bickering, Bickering Wives, Domestic Ann(e)s, Domestic Fluff, F/F, Fluff, Love Bites, Marian isn't checking Ann out she's just Concerned, Married Life, Tiny Bit Sexy, alternate title: Ann Walker has a Hickey, and her wife is going to give her More, hickey, poor marian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:15:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24149569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/but_i_am_a_villain/pseuds/but_i_am_a_villain
Summary: Sitting at the dinner table, Marian notices that her sister is unusually quiet, that Miss Walker is unusually fidgety, and that there is an unusual spot on Miss Walker's chest.
Relationships: Anne Lister (1791-1840)/Ann Walker (1803-1854)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 116





	Watercolors

Marian notices it for the first time at dinner one night. They’re all sitting around discussing—well, Anne is shouting, but everyone else is _discussing—_ the benefits of Miss Walker’s newer, nicer, less shabby carriage, and that is when she sees it. It catches her eye unintentionally, of course, because she would never be _looking_ there, but Miss Walker keeps fiddling with the neckline of her gown as though she’s constrained by it and it’s only natural that Marian’s eyes follow the young woman’s hands to the spot of irritation.

And that’s when she sees it, just below the rather sweeping curve of Ann’s dress that not only reveals her collarbone but begins to skirt downwards too. Sometimes Ann wears a little thin lace over her shoulders, or sometimes her gowns sport a rather high neck all on their own. Marian _is_ rather jealous of the young woman’s stunning array of gowns, but this is apparently not an appropriate dress for the evening. Yes, because that is where Ann is fiddling, right where the fabric reveals her sternum and teases a glimpse at something more. That is where Marian sees it, and she cannot keep her face from screwing up in surprise.

“...are you alright, Miss Walker?” she asks first. Better not to make assumptions about these things, surely. She must have seen it incorrectly in the evening light, which is no doubt skewed by the amount of clouds hovering over Shibden. She’ll give Miss Walker a chance to explain before she’s even asked a proper question.

“Hmm?” That is the most she gets out of Ann to start. The blonde drops her hand down into her lap as though it had never been lifted at all, flashing Marian a winning smile as she does so. “Oh, yes, of course. Sorry. What were you saying?”

Marian had been saying something about making room for Miss Walker’s carriage at Shibden and sending Anne’s ratty gig down to Crow Nest for storage, but those words die somewhere between her thoughts and her tongue. She watches as Ann plucks at her gown again and cannot seem to work any of her thoughts past that.

Luckily, however relevant that term may be, it’s Anne’s booming voice that fills the space at the table for the next few moments. Thank goodness Marian has practiced the art of turning that racket into nothing but a dull roar in the back of her head, because it gives her an opportunity to reexamine the little blonde sitting to her right. Surely she’s mistaken, she _must_ be.

It really only catches her eye when Miss Walker sits up straight. If Ann is a little bent in her chair, which Marian has noticed she often is, then it is entirely unnoticeable. It’s only when she postures up, or nods her head, or straightens her shoulders—all of which she does just about any time Anne speaks—that it’s visible. And it’s not all of it, either. Just the top. Just where Ann’s unusually pale skin starts to darken, clashing with the sweet, pink tones of her gown. It is as though it _moves_ when Ann moves, and that is why Marian can’t believe it. It doesn’t make any sense for it to be _there._

But when Ann reaches yet again, subconsciously it seems, to tug the neckline of her dress back up from a place it had never fallen from, Marian knows it must be true.

She will not address it out loud. No, she thinks, she positively refuses to. It will be an internal musing and nothing more.

“...is something wrong with your dress?” She blurts it out before she can catch herself. Well. So much for musing.

She doesn’t even realize that she’s cut Anne off while she’s speaking until the room is suddenly quiet, and that throbbing sensation in the back of her head that accompanies Anne’s presence melts steadily away. Everyone turns to look at her, and she doesn’t notice that either. She’s looking exclusively at Ann, who is frozen in her seat with a sudden blush flooding into her cheeks.

It has been three months since Miss Walker joined them at Shibden, and Marian has been nothing but chiefly delighted with the new addition to the household. She likes Miss Walker, truly; though she’s often quiet and occasionally shy, she is kind. She has a brilliant laugh, one that lights up every dark, dreary room of Shibden. She’s a lovely conversationalist, quite well-read, and an expert at backgammon. Marian particularly appreciates the last trait, as it means that Anne routinely loses every game they all play.

That, she’s realized, is truly what Miss Walker excels at. Ann knows how to play Anne’s games. She matches Anne in the most unusual ways, not often in tone or in mannerisms, but in wit. The only times Marian has ever seen Anne truly stumped are the moments where Ann has interjected in a bit of her conversation or provided a particularly sound defense during a dinner table debate. Marian’s caught them before lounging in the sitting room, most often on the same bench and sharing the same pillows, whispering to each other in unintelligible phrases that only stop when Anne’s mouth falls into a gape and Ann begins to giggle. Miss Walker may not always be outwardly expressive, but she is clever, and she is wonderful to have around.

What she is to Anne, beyond the word _companion,_ Marian has yet to bring herself to say. She’s noticed all the changes, of course. Anne’s sudden change in attire—far less black than before. The influx of trunks carrying books and gowns and finery and new bed sheets all piled into a room meant to be Miss Walkers, but that Marian has never once seen her sleep in. The rings, so unlike each other and yet so visible when catching the light from the sunsets in the dining room. She knows there is more going on than anyone has ever admitted out loud. 

That doesn’t matter to her, though. She still likes Ann. She likes her quite a lot.

And that is why she is almost loathe to cause this sudden halt and to have to point out what she sees, but she just can’t shake the thought from her mind, much less than she can rip her eyes from the spot Miss Walker keeps picking at.

“...your dress.” she says again, “Is it...bothering you?”

She almost misses the way Anne coughs into her wine at the question. Almost.

Ann, for her part, turns a deeper shade of red. The momentary silence had clearly given her time to think, but not enough time to make those thoughts convincing. Her hand seems to twitch in her lap, itching to rise back up and cover the little spot on her chest that is _much_ more pronounced now that it’s backed by her blush. 

Yes, because _that_ is what Marian sees: a little purple spot, with hints of red that bleed into grey around the edges. She can only see the crest of the mark as Ann’s chest rises and falls, but it is most certainly there, no matter how much she wishes it weren’t. It looks to be in the shape of an oval, marred by some jagged edges. It looks like a _bruise._

And why does Miss Walker have a bruise in the middle of her chest? _That_ Marian is not interested in knowing.

Ann starts to squirm with all eyes suddenly fixed on her—all eyes, it seems, except for Anne’s. Anne is looking dutifully down at her plate and occasionally into her glass for another sip of wine, as if none of this is happening to her left. Marian has half a mind to draw her into it, and even opens her mouth to do so, when Ann blurts out—

“Watercolors.”

The silence returns. Marian doesn’t know what to say, and sits there, staring, until Ann speaks again.

“Sorry, I...I spilled my watercolors. The brush. I dropped it. On my...chest.” She’s practically rosy now, the little thing. Marian lets her continue. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice, but I didn’t have time to scrub it off. It left a stain. I didn’t realize the dress didn’t cover it until I came downstairs.”

Marian cannot believe what it is she’s hearing, but given Ann’s eager nod at the end of her little tale, which seems to insist that no further questions be asked, she doesn’t press the subject anymore. All she does is glance back down at the mark and then back up at Ann, brow knit together with something that isn’t quite concern, but it isn’t approval either. A dull acceptance is as best as she can offer.

“...watercolors.” she repeats.

“...yes. Watercolors.”

And that is the end of that, Marian decides, because Miss Walker takes a deep breath in and tries to reroute the conversation and continues to tug at her dress for the rest of the evening. Neither Marian’s aunt nor father make any comment on the scene that’s played out in front of them, and perhaps that is for the best.

Anne’s silence, however, does _not_ go unnoticed. Marian wishes she hadn’t seen it, but when she glances up at her sister after Miss Walker begins speaking again, she notices a wicked glint in Anne’s eye that sparks when the woman glances down at Ann’s little stain. Anne’s eyes stay trained there for far too long, and when she does look away, it is not up to her family as Marian would have hoped, but back down into her glass with what is undoubtedly a smirk curling onto her lips. 

_Watercolors._ Is that what they’re calling it now?

* * *

Dinner, in Ann’s opinion, lasts for a thousand years after that. She has half a mind to make her excuses and go scurrying up the stairs the moment Marian asks about her dress, if only because she knows there is no good way to fib about this little problem. 

Especially given that it was supposed to be little, and _stay_ little. That is what Anne had insisted on over and over that morning, that it was nothing and no one would notice and it was barely even visible given how the neckline of Ann’s dress functioned. Those had been her words, not Ann’s, who was now seriously doubting the _functionality_ of any of her wardrobe choices. 

But, in a show of good faith, she stays put and tries to maintain a civil end to their evening. She starts asking about some of the tenants, trying to pull any and all attention off her and scatter it back out into the rest of the room. It seems to work, given that Aunt Anne and Captain Lister remain virtually silent throughout the whole affair. Marian, thankfully, picks up on the new thread of conversation and begins rattling off different facts and stories about the people who have come and gone over the years.

But Anne? Oh, Ann notices her silence too. Worse yet, when she turns to look at her, she notices that little look of _pride_ sparkling in her eyes. She watches her wife glance down at the exposed neckline of her dress, thoroughly examining the half-visible mark with a congratulatory smirk before hiding her lips behind her drink. Anne Lister, for all her daily bravado and boisterous nature, is silently simmering in her own wicked glee, and Ann will not stand for it.

That night she takes to bed early, calling on Eugenie to help undress her and put on her night things while Anne sits with her aunt. She’s already in her nightgown, seated on the edge of the bed and braiding her hair when Anne finally enters. Ann makes a show of crossing her arms when she does. She turns her nose up at her wife and refuses to look at her.

“And what is that look for?” Anne asks as she shuts the door. Clearly she’s not dropped any of her coy playfulness in the time since dinner. Ann huffs, turning her head further away.

“I am not speaking to you.”

“Oh? And what have I done to earn such horrid treatment? Or such a wonderful blessing, depending on how you look at it.”

Ann squawks slightly and jumps to her own defense, already abandoning that weak vow of silence.

“Excuse you! That is _rude._ And you know exactly what you did!”

“Served you an extra roll at dinner? I’ve told you before, you needn’t be worried about taking the last one off the plate, no one is going to fight you for it and you clearly need the—”

“Not _that.”_ Ann glares, though there is hardly any malice in it. Her wife is trying to distract her on purpose, but it isn’t going to work. “ _You_ said that my dress was fine and that no one was going to notice, after I _explicitly_ told you _not_ to leave a mark there!”

Anne, having rounded the corner of the bed to sit beside her wife, feigns a small sigh. Ann notices that the sound barely helps her hide a growing smirk.

“I thought your dress looked lovely. Surely you’re not going to let what Marian said bother you? She has no eye for style, really.”

“ _Style?”_ Ann uncrosses her arms only so she can reach over and poke indignantly at Anne’s collarbone, pretending to push her away. “This is not about _style._ Your sister saw what you did to my chest and pointed it out in front of the entire house!”

“What I did to your chest…” That horribly enticing glint in Anne’s eyes returns, just as she leans in to steal a kiss from her pouting wife. To make matters worse, she leans just beside Ann’s ear when she pulls away, whispering almost imperceptibly, “I think what I _did_ looks rather marvelous…”

There’s a tingling sensation that runs from Ann’s stomach down to her toes. She bites down on her lip, willing the feeling away, but instead ends up looking rather more enthralled with Anne’s proximity than she’s hoped. No, no, she cannot do this. She’s mad at her wife. She is _not_ about to be lulled into complacency. 

“I can never look Marian in the eye again.” she announces, turning dramatically away from Anne and crossing her arms yet again. She hears her wife huff beside her. Good. “Nor your aunt, who you _know_ heard the whole thing, or your father! He should have never had to endure such impolite conversation!”

“...you’re quite right, darling.” Anne begins to snicker beside her. “What impolite conversation it was. I shall tell Marian off first thing in the morning.”

“No, _no,_ Marian is not the one in trouble here! _You_ are.”

As they bicker, Anne has found her way back into Ann’s space, pulling her crossed arms apart until their hands are joined and Anne can begin tugging her in closer. The wicked woman has managed to turn Ann’s head back the other way, and though she does not kiss her outright and steal any complaints Ann may have right off her lips, she is teasing her with gentle kisses on her jawline, her shoulder, her neck, anywhere she can reach. It makes Ann’s eyes flutter with delight. Her resolution to be entirely irked is slowly melting away.

“Oh, of course...because I...spilled _watercolors_ on you, hm?”

Ann bites down on her lower lip, willing herself to keep any airy gasps trapped between her teeth. “You are _not_ allowed to tease me.” She means it in more ways than one. “I had to make up that lie because of you…”

“Yes, yes…” Anne’s voice comes out in warm breaths just below Ann’s ear, like hellish little whispers that hint at more tantalizing things to come. “Of course not. I shall congratulate you on the brilliance of your little fib instead.”

That’s when their lips connect, Anne having turned Ann’s head with a rather demanding tug that makes Ann squirm with delight. Her congratulations, it seems, is a kiss that leaves her breathless, and in her foolishness she tries to pull away for a gasp of air. That is when her wretched wife seizes her opportunity, sliding her knee across Ann’s lap until she’s all but straddled her, hands still cupping her cheeks and guiding her back to another kiss. This woman is calculated and cruel, Ann thinks to herself. How shall she ever win an argument if this is Anne’s best line of defense?

In an attempt to take one last stand, she loops her arms behind Anne’s neck and murmurs her scolding in between breaths. It is not a particularly brilliant move, but it’s about all she’s got. “I am still mad at you...you’re still in trouble.”

“Quite right. I shall find a way to make it up to you.” And suddenly she’s pushing her down, landing Ann on the mattress as she starts kissing down her chest over the nightgown. Ann cannot help herself, not anymore; that haughty little gasp passes her lips in an undeserved show of praise. Anne, clearly pleased with herself, laughs under her breath.

“I think…” she mutters, working her way back up to face Ann and hovering tantalizingly above her. Ann _loathes_ when she does this, when she leans just out of reach with her lips ever so slightly parted, whispering, taunting, _teasing._ It makes her whine despite herself. “...I think, if we are to stay on the subject of _watercolors,_ that I should like to paint all over you…”

Oh, of _course_ she would. Ann opens her mouth to protest and is met with another stolen kiss. Moments later, as she’s trying to gather her senses and find a witty remark, she feels Anne descend upon her chest again. Wretched, wretched woman! She’s even kissing the same spot that had caused this uproar to begin with, and though thankfully the neckline of Ann’s nightgown runs high, her wife _still_ manages to find the bruise and lavish it with kisses. It’s not long after that that Anne lifts herself back up and begins to find the fairest of Ann’s flesh, just on the underside of her jaw. This time she delivers not just kisses, but deep imprints of herself. Ann can feel her tongue, can feel her _teeth,_ and perhaps can even feel herself giving way under the pressure from Anne’s lips. This is _exactly_ what got them into trouble already, and now for such a mark to be on her neck? There is going to be another bruise, and she’s going to have to wear some funny shawl at the table, or one of Anne’s cravats, and perhaps that thought will bother her more once she isn’t so distracted by the feeling of Anne’s hips rolling against her own or the titillating sound of Anne’s murmurs, possessive and almost feral, that follow every wet nip and kiss. 

“You…” Ann tries to huff, but it certainly comes out as more of a giggle. She always has enjoyed kisses there. “...are...a _bad_ person.”

That gives Anne pause, if for no other reason than to make a face at her wife. Ann knows it isn’t exactly the most clever remark in the world, but it’s all she has. To her great misfortune, though, and not the least bit surprising, Anne has a retort of her own waiting on the tip of her tongue.

“Well, Miss Walker…” And Ann knows she’s in trouble then, because Anne really only calls her that anymore when she _knows_ she’s gotten her way. “I think I will manage to live with such critiques, if only because I am about to become quite a brilliant _artist.”_

How the next few seconds into minutes into hours pass is an unknown, ecstatic blur. All Ann really remembers from her joyous haze is the hands that found their way up under her nightgown, the bouncing and creaking of their rickety bed, and the lips that never left her neck.

* * *

It’s at breakfast the next morning that Marian _knows_ she shouldn’t have said anything last night. She doesn’t know what she was expecting, really. Humility, maybe? Common civility? Those are things Anne possesses when she’s in the company of high society, but apparently all such inclinations die on the doorsteps of Shibden. In the estate, any attempt to correct Anne’s poor behavior instead becomes some kind of twisted competition. The fact that this isn’t any different is disappointing, but Marian really ought not to be surprised.

At least this time she isn’t going to get in trouble for, as Anne calls it, making Miss Walker uncomfortable with her _motionless and unintelligible_ gaze. No, because this time, it doesn’t take any amount of investigation or uncomfortable conversation to find what’s _bothering_ Miss Walker. 

Oh, the little blonde still plucks at her dress, picking at the collar and trying to sit in a way that makes the aforementioned mark invisible. Marian doesn’t mind it, not anymore. The actions are all well and good.

Or they would be, if not for the _new_ mark that sits, for the entire world to see, under Ann’s jaw and onto her neck.

This one is a deep purple, melting into different tones depending on how Ann moves or how much she tilts her head. It’s a vicious, unpleasant color, and should anyone not know where it came from they may think Miss Walker had been properly injured. But to Marian’s chagrin, she knows exactly where it came from, and if she looks at it too long, she _swears_ she can see the imprints of _teeth_ still visible.

With no shawl to hide it, no fabric to pluck at, Ann has left the mark totally exposed. Marian knows she’s staring, not exactly trying to hide it, and waits for Ann to break the silence with some excuse or another. When nothing happens, though, she takes it upon herself to make the awkwardness known.

“Another accident with the watercolors, Miss Walker?” she sighs. Ann keeps a straight face, but Marian sees the red starting to tint her ears.

“Hmmm? Oh. Yes. The watercolors.”

Marian looks pointedly down the table, only to spy Anne pretending to read the paper. No amount of newsprint can hide that stupid, far-too-pleased-with-herself look, though, and as much as Marian wants to scold and shout and start some discussion of _indecency_ and _embarrassment_ and _you cannot do that to Miss Walker,_ she knows it will only make matters worse.

So she sighs again, picks up her tea, and offers Miss Walker a smile.

But she doesn’t miss Anne’s smirk, or her free hand drumming on the table, or the little puff of air that escapes her nose in place of a proper laugh.

_Watercolors._ That’s what they are calling it now. 

**Author's Note:**

> Poor Marian...right in front of her salad. 
> 
> Quarantine has got me hyperfocused on the wives again, so hopefully there will be a few more oneshots and likewise some updates to other multichapter works coming soon! Thank you for reading, and thank you to shakenspeares for the beta, as always!


End file.
